Porcelain Tub
by pandorad24
Summary: When the newsies lose the strike to Pulitzer, the boys are left to turn themselves in to the Refuge, or else starve in the streets. Luckily, Jack's always looking out for his friends. Spot-centric, mentions of prostitution.


The man sighed contently as he readjusted his clothing, and a few coins landed on the cold cobblestones beside him with a dull clink. "Not bad, kid," he said gruffly, before walking away, leaving the boy to recover alone. Swallowing the nauseating pain, he dressed himself and scooped up the change, counting what he had earned. A full dollar - not as much as a girl would have been paid, but much like the customer, he was desperate enough to take what he could get.

He fought the sardonic urge to laugh. What would his boys say if they knew? The king of Brooklyn, reduced to selling himself in alleyways to survive.

He'd only done it a couple times before, when the alternative was to starve to death, or else give himself up to the Refuge. Most of the other boys had done just that, but he would rather die on the streets than be locked up in there. On the other hand, it was times like these when he wondered if freedom was worth the price.

The iron bracelet around his bony wrist felt heavier than ever. It probably once belonged to a pair of handcuffs, but was now recognized across the city as the mark of a striker. When they'd lost the battle to Pulitzer, every newsie was required to wear one for the next five years of their lives, prohibiting anyone from hiring them. Evidently, the mayor could be persuaded to do anything - at least once he had enough dough stuffed in his pocket.

The newsies slowly drifted apart, most ending up in the Refuge one way or another, the rest scattered throughout the city, sleeping in the gutter and begging for food. He understood that there was safety in numbers, so he tried his best to keep Brooklyn together. After a couple months of watching his boys slowly starve to death or desert him for the shelter of the Refuge, he was left with no one but his right-hand man, Sprint. They had been partners on the streets and best friends since before they started selling papers, and it was a small comfort to fall back into their old routine.

Sprint died that Christmas Eve; killed, by a gang of violent rogue strikers from the Bronx. They wanted his coat, and he wouldn't give it to them. They slit his throat and stole his clothes, leaving Spot in a similar state for trying to defend his friend. Once he dragged himself and the body from the alleyway, he managed to illegally bury Sprint in one of Brooklyn's few parks. He cried that night - he fell apart completely and just cried until he felt sick, his empty stomach dry-heaving between sobs. Then, when the sun rose again, he put on a tough face and carried on alone.

Now, wandering the slums of Manhattan, he clutched the coins tightly in his fist and tried not to look at the faces that stared as he limped past. There was pity written all over them, disgust, _knowing_. They all knew it, their eyes echoing what his father had called him years ago as he hid in the kitchen cupboard, eyes clenched tight against the angry words, praying to a God he knew nothing about that the monster with the horrible hands wouldn't find him. _Worthless. Stupid. Ugly. Whore_.

To New York City, he was worth no more than a dollar in spare change. Some ex-newsies might look at him now and see a king fallen from his throne, but he knew better - he was just another dirty, scrawny kid begging for bread to survive. He always was.

* * *

Jack Kelly was on his way home, carrying a bag full of various groceries from the market. Mrs. Jacobs had given him a few extra cents that morning with the instruction to find something special for Sarah, a warm twinkle in her eyes. He was grinning, imagining the way the beautiful girl's face would light up when she saw the colorful assortment of candy he'd picked up at the drugstore. That is, as long as Les didn't see them first.

Mr. Jacobs was offered his job back not long after the strike ended, and as soon as the family received their first paycheck, they offered Jack a place in their home. He ran errands for them, and even began attending school. It was a complete lifestyle change for him, but it was wonderful. To belong to a home, a family... that was his real dream, it always had been.

He was lucky. He knew that. So many of his friends had ended up on the streets again, or behind bars. Sometimes the guilt would keep him awake at night, knowing there were so many of his boys going hungry at that very moment, with no warm bed or a roof over their heads. He searched for them everyday, hoping to offer them a warm meal and a safe place to spend the night, but he had yet to find a familiar face amongst the crowd.

He pulled his coat tighter around him as he entered Hell's Kitchen. It was probably a bad idea to take a shortcut home through the Five Points, but he rationalized that he was only passing through. He was a tough kid, after all, he could handle himself in the slums just fine.

The faces were all the same. Dirty, hungry, with hollow cheeks and hollow expressions. Every one of them drowning in poverty, some homeless; many of them just kids. He found himself looking for familiar features in those faces. There had to be someone out there, anyone...

And then, one figure stood out. He was walking ahead of Jack, somewhat shorter than him and dangerously thin, with dirty bronze tangles and a limp in his gait. On closer inspection, Jack was horrified to see why; a dark scarlet stain had bled through the seat of the boy's trousers.

Jack had to swallow back a wave of nausea, and as his mind began tallying up the names, he was almost relieved that none of his boys could fit the description. _Then why does it feel like I know him?_

"Hey!" He called, breaking into a jog to catch up with the figure. "Hey, kid, wait up!"

And then the boy turned around, and it was as if all the oxygen in Jack's lungs suddenly vanished, stopping him dead in his tracks.

"...Spot Conlon?"

His eyes were impossible to comprehend. They were still just as blue, just as sharp, but there was an emptiness there that pierced at his insides. When he recognized Jack, the effect was instantaneous; those eyes went from hollow, to shocked, to so full of shame that Jack wanted to look away, but he was frozen in place. "Jack," a hoarse voice replied, too small and hopeless to ever belong to the king of Brooklyn he knew. But it was him - there was no doubt.

They stood there for what seemed like an eternity. Jack, well-groomed and cared for, and Spot, an emaciated shell of what he once was, barely clinging to life. What could he possibly say? He had planned for a moment like this, ran through it over and over in his head, but now it was staring him in the face with those unbearable blue eyes and the words suddenly became so meaningless. He went ahead and said them anyway, because it was all he could think to do. "Are ya hungry? I... I can take ya back to Davey's place, we's got plenty of food."

Spot did nothing in response except to take a few steps back, his wasted muscles tensing defensively. There was panic written clearly over his face.

"Hey, it's okay," Jack said in what he hoped was a reassuring tone, approaching Spot carefully, as if he were some wounded animal. "I won't hurt ya. It's me, Jacky-boy, remember?"

"Don't," Spot croaked. "Just... Just go home, Jack."

"I ain't leavin' ya, Spot," Jack said evenly, daring to take a few paces closer. "Just come with me, I'll get ya everythin' ya need."

Spot shook his head, backing away slowly. Jack anticipated his break for freedom a split-second before he tried to run, and he made a grab for the boy's wrist to keep him in place. Out of surprise, Spot released the fist he was holding, and a handful of coins clattered to the ground. Jack looked down at them in confusion. "Spot... Where did ya get this money?"

This was clearly the subject Spot had been afraid of, and the words just came flowing out in a nervous jumble. "I-I was starvin'. I didn't know what else to do. I's done it before, when I had to. There's always someone willin' to pay, if I look in the right place. It's not so bad. It hurts, and it makes me think of... but... But it keeps me alive. I was desperate, and I was so hungry, I... I don't wanna die, I'm so scared to die, so I just..." His eyes filled with tears, and he looked so horribly ashamed that it broke Jack's heart. Spot Conlon, once the most respected and famous newsie in all of New York, couldn't even bear to look him in the eye.

"C'mon," Jack said softly, shrugging off his coat and wrapping it around the shivering boy's shoulders, shielding him from the bitter February air. "Let's get ya cleaned up."

* * *

The Jacobs' apartment was so different from the one he once lived in. It was clean, and comfortable, and without a trace of tobacco or stale whiskey in the air. But the most disconcerting thing was the evidence that a real family lived there - there were photos on the walls, a few of Les' toys left on the floor, and the incredible smell of something cooking on the stove that was making Spot's mouth water. The room appeared to be empty, except for...

"Jack, what took you so long? Ma was getting worried that you'd -"

The Mouth froze mid-sentence, staring at Spot in surprise. The Brooklyn boy kept his gaze trained on the floor, but he could still feel David's eyes piercing into him. "Spot Conlon? Wha-"

"Found him on my way home," Jack explained. "Would your Ma mind if he took a bath before dinner?" Without waiting for a response, Jack lead him upstairs, ushering him into the bathroom. "I'll find ya somethin' clean to wear," he said, and pulled the door closed behind him, leaving Spot to bathe in private (a new concept for him, having done it out in the open for years at the Brooklyn boarding house).

He rarely ever saw his own reflection, so he was a little startled to turn around and find blue eyes staring back at him from the vanity mirror. The longer he stood there, the more disgusted he became. He looked just as filthy as he felt, his face sunken with malnourishment, and his hair greasy and overgrown. It was no wonder the man had only paid a dollar.

Turning away from the mirror, he stripped off the only possessions he had left - a pair of ripped trousers that were literally falling apart at the seams, and his thin underclothes, which had unsurprisingly done little to protect him from the harsh winter. Letting them drop to the floor, he noticed the stain in his trousers, and with a jolt of fear he took a glance between his legs and saw a thin trail of blood rolling down his thighs. Bile rose in his throat, and suddenly, the need to be clean was overpowering.

In his frantic state, he almost didn't notice the accommodations of the bath - it was a porcelain tub, large enough for a person to lay back in. The only baths he'd ever had were freezing and restricted to a small wooden tub, not to mention the water had to be pumped through a spigot... But this place had it's own running faucet, with _hot water_. Hands fumbling over the taps, he turned it on as hot as it could go, and waited as the room filled with steam.

He winced as he stepped into the nearly scalding bath, but he just reminded himself that the heat would help to remove the awful filth that consumed him, and he forced himself to sink in to his collarbone. He found a bar of soap and began scrubbing himself down, over and over again, until he had washed himself nearly a dozen times. He might very well have scoured off a layer of skin, but somehow he still felt so _dirty_. He kept scrubbing frantically, until the bath began to lose it's warmth and nearly half the bar of soap had worn away, leaving his skin an angry shade of pink and sore to touch. It still didn't seem like enough, but he forced himself to stop - he didn't want to use up all the family's soap.

He washed his hair and face a few times, and pulled the plug on the bath, watching the murky gray water slither down the drain. As he was drying himself with an incredibly warm, fluffy towel (another phenomenon of middle-class life), there was a knock on the door, and a timid voice drifted from the other side. "I found you some old clothes of David's," the girl said. "They're a bit small on him, they'll probably fit you just fine."

Quickly wrapping the towel around his waist, he opened the door and saw Jack's girl standing there, holding a bundle of clothes. He could tell she tried to hide her shock when she saw the ribs and hipbones jutting out from his raw skin, but he didn't miss the way her eyes widened, staring at him. "Um... We'll have dinner in a few minutes," she said, doing a surprisingly good job of keeping her voice even. "I'm sure you're hungry."

"Yeah," he replied, ducking his head self-consciously as he took the clothes from her. He hated the way people always stared. "Um, thank you." Shutting the door behind him, he changed into the clothes, relieved for something clean to wear after spending the last few months in the same nasty outfit. Hoping to make himself a bit more presentable before going downstairs for dinner, he ran a hand through his damp hair and rinsed his mouth several times with hot water, scrubbing his teeth with his finger. He also made use of the toilet, grateful for a far more preferable alternative to a park bush to do his business in.

Facing the mirror one last time, he gave himself a long, hard look. His body and spirit had deteriorated so much since the strike. He could see the exhaustion in his eyes, the shame. He felt so sick of it all - sick of living like this, sick of being alone, so sick of himself and how disgusting he felt.

But somehow, Jack had looked past all that. Jack brought him here, offered him a bath and a meal and a place to stay. The only question was... Why? Sure, they were old friends, but that time seemed like eons ago. He wasn't the king of Brooklyn anymore, he was a homeless kid who occasionally whored himself for food. How could Jack see that and invite him back into his life as if nothing had changed?

Feeling another familiar pang in his stomach, he was reminded of the food he'd smelled earlier and quickly made his way downstairs. As he entered the living area, it was as if someone flipped a switch - in an instant, the entire room went dead silent, and everyone turned to look at him sheepishly. They were talking about him. The silence prickled on his skin, and he cleared his throat awkwardly. "Um, thanks for lettin' me borrow some clothes and use your bathroom. It's been a while since I had a real bath." He mentally smacked himself for how pathetic that sounded, but Mrs. Jacobs smiled at him kindly.

"Don't mention it, dear," she said, setting a steaming pot of something amazing down on the table. "Take a seat, we were just about to start dinner." He could've cried with happiness right then, but he forced himself to be calm as he sat at the table, waiting patiently to be served. Truthfully, he had never sat down for a normal family meal in his life.

"Les, will you say grace?" Mr. Jacobs asked, and the boy nodded, shutting his eyes and bowing his head. The rest of the family followed suit, and Spot quickly mimicked the action.

"Father in Heaven, we are thankful for this food that Ma made for us, please bless that it will be good for our bodies. And please bless Spot Conlon that he won't be hungry anymore." At this, the boy in question cracked an eye open and glanced at Les in surprise - the kid had this adorably serious expression on his face, and he spoke earnestly as he continued to pray on Spot's behalf. "Please bless that he will be safe and warm, and he will have a place to live very soon. In Jesus' name, amen."

This phrase was echoed around the table, and Spot stared at Les, not sure of how to respond to someone who had just asked God to make his life better. Thankfully, Sarah did it for him, smiling at her brother approvingly. "That was a very nice prayer, Les."

Mrs. Jacobs began dishing out spaghetti onto plates, handing Spot a large helping first. It took every ounce of restraint he possessed not to scarf it all down at once. The hearty Italian food made him think of Brooklyn, and for the first time in an eternity, he felt at home.

* * *

If Jack didn't know any better, he would've suspected Mrs. Jacobs of trying to gain all of Spot's weight back in a single meal. She insisted he take three more enormous piles of pasta, and even brought out an apple pie afterwards, serving him nearly a third of the entire thing. Considering how emaciated he was when Jack found him, and even before then, knowing he regularly shared his meals with some of the less fortunate Brooklyn newsies, it had probably been years since the kid had a full stomach.

Now, he was curled up comfortably in Jack's bed, snoring softly with a pillow cuddled to his chest. Jack had offered to sleep on the floor, and by the time he had returned to the room with an extra blanket to cushion the unforgiving wood, the other boy was already fast asleep. He didn't mean to stare, but the change was almost startling. The tense lines on his forehead disappeared, all the stress and hardship melted away as he drifted off into peaceful oblivion. Watching him now, Jack wished his friend didn't have to wake up to such a life ever again.

And then, he remembered. The money. Pulitzer had never taken it back, it was still there, tucked away with the few possessions he had brought to the Jacobs' apartment. Of course, it was originally intended for a fresh start in Santa Fe, but he had everything he wanted right there in Manhattan. What else could he use it for now, except to offer someone else the chance for a better life?

If anyone deserved it, Spot did. After seeing the things he'd done to make a buck, Jack couldn't let him go back out there without help. Of course, he'd have the kid's pride to contend with - Spot Conlon had never been one to take charity well. Just the fact that he was still there proved how desperate he really was.

* * *

The sun was just peeking over the horizon as Spot slowly pushed the window open, careful not to disturb the silence of the slumbering apartment. The streets outside were just beginning to stir, winding up for another big day in New York City. The scabbers were out already, preaching headlines that were meant for him and his boys - meanwhile, he was hoping against hope that someone hadn't picked up the dollar he'd dropped the day before, because there was no way his body could take another round. It's a fine life, alright.

"Spot, wait!" The Brooklyn boy turned to see Jack getting up from the floor, apparently having just woken up, a slight shadow of stubble on his jaw. "I's got somethin' for ya." Before Spot could protest, he began digging through the small dresser, pulling out drawers as he searched frantically for whatever he'd decided to bestow upon Brooklyn's ex-leader. Finally, he pulled out a bundle of...

"Is that real?" Spot breathed, gaping at the stack of bills in disbelief.

"I hope so," Jack replied. "Pulitzer gave it to me."

"Oh yeah, when ya went scab," Spot recalled, his eyes narrowing.

"Yeah, well, I'm doin' the right thing now, ain't I?" He held the money out to Spot, self-assured as ever.

"I can't take that money, Jack," Spot said with a frown.

"Why not? What am I gonna use it for, a new pair of shoes? It's a hundred dollars, Spot. This could be the difference between life and death for you."

"I'm sure Davey's family would find a use for it."

"Davey's family don't have to sell sex for food," Jack retorted flatly. The words felt like a punch to the gut, and Spot felt the heat rise in his cheeks.

"Shut your mouth, Kelly."

"What, ya gonna try to deny it now? Ya need this money, Spot. I just wanna help ya, is it so hard to just let me do that?"

Spot remained silent. The more he thought about it, the more tempting it became. As much as he hated being in debt... This could carry him through the next few years of Pulitzer's sentence - maybe until he was allowed to get a job. A _real_ job.

"Alright," he muttered. "I guess if ya weren't gonna use it anyway..."

Jack shoved the bills into his hands, grinning triumphantly. "Don't spend it all in one place."

Spot rolled his eyes, ducking out of the window and onto the fire escape with ease. Stuffing the money into his pocket, he reluctantly turned back to thank the older boy. "I owe ya one, Jacky-boy."

"Don't worry, you's can just pay me back when you're supreme overlord of Brooklyn, or somethin'." Spot smirked, and spat into his hand, holding it out expectantly. Jack readily followed suit, and they shook on it for nostalgia's sake.

"If ya ever need anything..." Jack gripped his hand tighter, looking him in the eye. "Come back here, alright? We's always got more food than we can eat, and ya know how Mrs. Jacobs loves to feed ya."

Spot smiled back. "We'll see. Try not to miss me too much, Jacky-boy."

As he climbed down the fire escape, he glanced at Pulitzer's building in the distance, rising above the rooftops menacingly. The man thought he owned them, but he forgot one thing... The newsies had each other. And, sometimes, that was all it took to survive.


End file.
